Daring Chloe

by Walker, Laura Jensen

  Julia called after Justin’s retreating back. “And pistachios too. We’re all out of pistachios.”

  After the door closed behind him, Julia shifted on the couch and exhaled noisily. “I owe you. Justin’s been driving me crazy lately, hovering over me like a mother hen. I told him earlier to go see his friends so I could have a little space, but he didn’t want to leave me alone.”

  “Aw, that’s sweet.”

  “Not 24/7 it isn’t. I’m pregnant not terminal. I don’t need round-the-clock care.” Her eyes lit on the plastic take-out bag. “Hey, toss me another one of those fortune cookies.”

  “Someone’s got an appetite.”

  “Well, I am eating for two, you know.” Julia crunched into her cookie and fixed me with a knowing look. “So, what’s the deal with you and Ryan?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you guys have been hanging out and his name seems to be cropping up a lot in conversation these days. So are you dating?”

  “Ryan and me?” I laughed. “Serious?”

  “Serious.”

  “He’s just a friend.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Positive.”

  “Just checking.” She shifted uncomfortably on the couch again. “Has he heard from you-know-who lately?”

  “It’s okay. You can say his name. And yes, Ryan said he heard from Chris a month or so ago. He moved to Alaska.”

  “Alaska? Why?”

  “He got a job as a kayaking guide.”

  “Sounds right up his alley.”

  “Yep. Apparently he met this ‘cool chick’ who was vacationing in San Diego from Alaska. She’s a kayak guide up there and told him there were always jobs available for athletic guys like him.”

  “Ah.” Julia offered me a fortune cookie and a smile. “Well, that just proves that you two wouldn’t have worked. Jock Chris and Chloe the book geek? Not in a million years.”

  Guess I’m not the only one in the family who assigns names. Chloe-the-book-geek? Not bad. Pretty accurate actually.

  “You’re right, Jules. Next time I’m going for a guy who reads.”

  “Agatha Christie kept me guessing until the very end,” Paige said at our October book club meeting. “Each time I thought I knew who the murderer was, she’d drop another clue that made me change my mind.”

  “I know!” Annette said. “Usually I can solve mysteries halfway through the book, but here I was stumped.”

  “That’s why she’s considered the master of mystery,” Jenna said, preening a little that her book club selection had gone over so well.

  Since Murder on the Orient Express had taken place on the world-famous luxury train from Istanbul to Paris, Jenna had wanted to re-create that train-trip adventure by having us all ride the Skunk Train, a historic steam engine up north that chugs through the redwoods. Unfortunately, since Fort Bragg was more than a four-hour drive from Sacramento, it would have required an overnight stay in a hotel, which our Paris-saving budgets couldn’t afford.

  Jenna had settled on the murder mystery theater instead. On Halloween night, no less. We’d all gone in costume and had a blast. Becca had even been tapped to play one of the interactive roles during the mystery.

  Of course.

  “Bonjour Mademoiselle, je voudrais la glace au chocolat, s’il vous plait. Merci.”

  “Excusez-moi, Madame. Je suis malade. Où est la toilette, s’il vous plait? ”

  I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around from my bedroom desk where I was intent on the task before me.

  Becca’s mouth moved, but I couldn’t hear what she said. I pushed my earphones down around my neck.

  “What did you just say?” she repeated.

  “ ‘Hello, I’d like chocolate ice cream, please. Thank you.’ And, ‘Excuse me, I am ill. Where is the restroom, please?’ ”

  “Uh-oh. Did you get ill from the ice cream?” She scrunched her face. “Remind me not to have any while we’re in Paris.”

  “Actually, you’re going to want some. There’s this amazing ice cream place not too far from Notre Dame with more unusual flavor combinations than Ben and Jerry’s.” I licked my lips in anticipation. “And you’d better start practicing your French, too, smarty. We’ll be there in less than three weeks.”

  “Only twenty days.” Becca plopped down on my bed. “How cool is that?”

  “It would be even cooler if you spoke the language a little.”

  “But I do. Check it out: Bonjour, Mademoiselle. Parlez-vous anglais? ”

  “You need to be able to say more than that.”

  “Why? They all speak English, don’t they?”

  “No. Why should they? They live in France.”

  “Yeah, but English is the universal language.”

  “Maybe — although I think Spanish may have recently passed it. But either way, don’t you think it would be a good idea, since we’re going to their country, to learn just a little of their language?”

  Careful. Climbing up on your soapbox there.

  I leaned back in my chair. “French is such a beautiful language. Like classical music with a hint of jazz.”

  “Well, aren’t you waxing poetic?”

  “Ce n’est rien. It is nothing.”

  “You’re right. It does sound a little like classical music.”

  Becca’s cell blared — not a classical music ringtone — and she raced to answer it. She returned a few minutes later, a pleased smirk on her face.

  “Who was that?”

  “Brian.”

  “Brian who?”

  She stretched out on my bed and clasped her hands beneath her head. “Brian Rhodes. He’s this customer I met at the store today. We’re going out tomorrow night. He’s cute and smart. He needed my help in finding a philosophy book for his master’s class.”

  “I thought you had a date with Nick tomorrow night.” It was difficult to keep up with my roommate’s love life. Every month, sometimes every week it seemed, there was a new romance du jour. But Becca always kept things fun and casual. She wasn’t interested in serious.

  She made a face. “I’m so over Nick.”

  “I thought you liked him. He seemed really sweet.”

  “He was. And I did. At first. But after the third date he started getting clingy. I hate clingy.”

  “I know. Any idea why?”

  “Why? Because I don’t like guys that follow me around like a puppy dog.”

  “And that’s because . . . ?”

  “Because it’s creepy. Stop trying to analyze me, Dr. Phil.” She changed the subject. “I keep forgetting to ask, how’d Sophie’s doctor’s visit go? Everything okay?”

  “Fine, thank goodness!”

  It had been a little scary when Julia’s baby — Sophie Rose — was born a little early the week before Christmas. She showed signs of an infection, so couldn’t go home right away, much to my sister’s and Justin’s concern and dismay. Actually, we were all concerned. Lots of prayers went up for that little baby. Thankfully, though, the doctors released her with a clean bill of health a few days later, to everyone’s collective relief.

  Sophie was the best present under our family Christmas tree. My mom had sewn her a soft red velvet dress with hand-embroidered white rosebuds for her first Christmas two days ago and Julia had put her in those white legging thingies that unsnap easily for quick diaper access. My contribution had been a pair of white satin booties trimmed in red.

  “Sophie looks great. She’s gaining weight, her color’s really good, and she got this really big smile on her face when I was reading her ’Twas the Night Before Christmas. My mom said it was gas, but I know better.”

  “Is this the same woman who said all babies look alike and they’re boring until they can start walking and talking?” Becca teased.

  “What can I say? Sophie is an exceptional baby. Very smart. Gorgeous too.”

  “Spoken like a proud auntie.” Becca bounded off the bed. “Well, I’d better go
. I’m meeting Jenna at the gym, and on the way I’m going to give Nick the boot.”

  “Hey,” I said before she disappeared. “Promise me one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t do it in a text message, okay? At least talk to him on the phone.”

  “No prob. You know me. I’ve never been one to take the coward’s way out.”

  I practiced my French for another fifteen minutes and then decided to reward myself with a well-deserved snack. I padded down the hall toward the kitchen in my fuzzy red slippers and favorite flannel pants and sweatshirt to get some tea and chocolate chip cookies. Shivering, I punched up the heat on the hall thermostat to dispel the coldness of the wet, drizzly December day.

  In the kitchen, the empty cookie package and a smattering of crumbs on the countertop mocked me.

  Typical.

  Becca was always finishing off food and leaving me to clean up behind her. I decided to have tea and crackers instead. Filling the teakettle with fresh water, I returned it to the stove, turned on the burner, and opened the cupboard to get a mug. But like Old Mother Hubbard, I found the cupboard was bare. I’d asked Becca to run the dishwasher earlier, but of course she’d forgotten.

  Again.

  Opening the jammed-to-the-hilt dishwasher, I pulled the least dirty mug out, gave it a quick swipe with the soap wand, and rinsed it out. Then I filled the plastic well with detergent, closed the dishwasher door, and hit start.

  While I waited for the water to boil, I went in search of my copy of Les Misérables. I’d fallen asleep on the couch reading it last night and remembered setting it on the coffee table before I went to bed. But it wasn’t there now.

  I checked the cushions to see if maybe it had fallen down between them. No luck.

  Dropping to my knees, I peeked underneath the couch. Nothing, except one of Becca’s missing Birkenstocks, which I pulled out and placed next to the chair she always sprawled in where she’d be sure to see it.

  Resuming my search for my wayward book, I checked the dining room.

  Nada.

  The kettle whistled, and I returned to the kitchen, where I poured a cup of cinnamon tea and grabbed some peanut butter crackers and a napkin. Maybe I’d taken it to my bedroom after all. I checked my nightstand and alongside my bed.

  Nothing.

  I sipped my tea and munched a cracker, thinking. There was only one other place it could be.

  Becca had lost her copy a couple weeks ago and hadn’t wanted to shell out money to buy another one, so I’d told her we could share. Only, could she please wait until I was finished before she started? I was down to the last few chapters.

  I guess she couldn’t wait. Well, neither could I.

  I approached Becca’s room with fear and trembling. You never knew what you’d find in there. How can I put this gently?

  She’s a slob.

  I’ve never been a neatnik like my mom and Julia, but compared to Becca, I’m the queen of clean. Yet she paid rent — usually on time — and it was her room, so as long as she kept the door closed when people came over, I figured the state of the room was her business.

  Today, though, she’d left her door open. Hoping to find the book on her nightstand just inside the door so I wouldn’t have to invade the Becca sanctuary, I stuck my hand inside her room while still standing in the hall and fumbled for the light switch.

  The shower scene music from Psycho filled my head. Mountains of clothes, and piles of books and papers, sports gear, damp towels, and stray empty water bottles carpeted the disaster-zone floor, obscuring the actual carpet beneath.

  Averting my eyes from the havoc Hurricane Becca had wreaked, I glanced at the small wooden bookcase next to her bed that did double duty as a nightstand. One of my Fiesta-ware plates with hard, caked-on spaghetti sauce from dinner three — no, wait, four — nights ago perched precariously on a stack of paperbacks.

  Gingerly I lifted the plate, and as I did, the whole stack of books tumbled to the floor out of my reach.

  Now I’d have to go in.

  Carefully, I stepped over another stack of paperbacks, and as I did, my foot crunched down on an empty soda can trapped beneath a magazine. At least I hoped it was empty.

  I picked up the can of Diet Dr Pepper and the fallen stack of books. Unfortunately, Les Misérables wasn’t in the stack. Sighing, I returned the paperbacks to the clean spot on the top of Becca’s dusty bookshelf. I stole a quick glance at the other shelves, but Victor Hugo was nowhere to be found. Not even a Quasimodo.

  “Sanctuary!”

  No way was I going to venture any farther into the recesses of Becca’s room. I already felt like a trespasser. Besides, there was no telling what I’d find. I’d just have to ask her when she got home to please return my book. I switched off the light and headed back down the hall with the empty can on top of the dirty plate.

  As I passed by her bathroom, I spotted a familiar book cover on the floor. The very dirty floor.

  Becca returned home at midnight to find me sitting on the couch in my robe and pj’s sipping another cup of cinnamon tea. “What are you still doing up?” she asked. “Don’t you have church in the morning?”

  “I was waiting for you.” I took a deep breath and tucked my feet underneath me. “We need to talk.”

  “That sounds ominous. Those are the same words I used on Nick earlier.” Becca plopped down in the chair facing me, the corners of her mouth turned up. “Don’t tell me you’re going to break up with me?”

  “No . . . but we do need to make some changes around here.” I held up my bloated paperback with Cosette’s orphaned face on the cover, crumpled and peeling back from the spine. “I found this on your bathroom floor.”

  “I’m sorry. I dropped it in the tub when I was reading last night, and I was trying to let it dry out.” She smiled wryly. “Guess it didn’t work. But don’t worry — I’ll buy you another one at work tomorrow.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  Becca yawned and stood up. “So we’re good now?”

  “Not exactly.”

  She sat back down.

  I took another deep breath. I hated confrontation more than just about anything — including camping. But there was no help for it. “Bec, you can’t leave dirty plates in the bedroom with dried food on them. We’ll get bugs. Or even worse” — I shuddered — “mice.”

  “What were you doing in my room?”

  “Looking for my book, the book that I’d asked you to wait to borrow until I’d finished reading it.”

  She had the grace to blush.

  “I poked my head through the open door to see if it might be on your nightstand, and I saw a stack of paperbacks. But a plate was covering them — a dirty plate with dried-on food. And when I moved it to see if my book might be beneath it, the whole stack of books fell. The only reason I went into your room,” I continued, “only two steps, by the way, was to pick up the fallen books and put them back where I’d found them.” I smiled to show her I wasn’t the enemy and this wasn’t a war. “How do you even get to your bed?” I teased. “Do you take a running leap or what?”

  “I manage.” She looked at me curiously. “But since when did you become Mrs. Clean? You told me you hate cleaning.”

  “Just because I hate it doesn’t mean I don’t do it. Besides, there’s a difference between messy and dirty. I don’t mind stacks of books or piles of paper . . . have you looked at my desk lately?” I cut a wry look her way. “But it does bother me to see dirty dishes lying around and grody bathrooms.” I got to my feet and motioned for her to follow. “I want to show you something.” I strode down the hall, smiling to myself at my little surprise and flung open the hall bathroom door with a flourish.

  “Ta-da!”

  “What?” She turned confused eyes to mine.

  “What do you mean what? Look at the bathroom. It’s sparkling.”

  “O-kaaay?”

  “Are you telling me you don’t see any difference?”r />
  “Am I supposed to?”

  “You’re kidding. I spent nearly two hours cleaning that bathroom.”

  “Serious? Why?”

  “Because there was hair all over the floor, the trash can was overflowing, the tub had a thick ring of soap scum around it, there was toothpaste spattered all over the sink, and don’t even get me started on the toilet.” I rubbed my eyes beneath my glasses. “Have you ever heard of cleanser? Or Lysol? A pumice stone, maybe?”

  “Like the one I use on my heels?”

  “No. Like the one you use to get rid of the nasty ring inside the toilet.”

  “I don’t have time to deal with all that stuff.” She puffed out a how-boring-can-you-get sigh. “Besides, it’s my bathroom. You’ve got your own to play Suzie Homemaker in.”

  “It’s not just your bathroom. It’s the guest bathroom too — the one people use when they stop by. And you may not care if it’s dirty, but I do. It’s embarrassing.”

  “Maybe to your überclean mother and sister but not the rest of the world.”

  I puffed air out my cheeks in a frustrated sigh. “Clearly we have very different ideas of how to live.”

  “And what’s so bad about that? I’m serious,” Becca said in earnest. “Differences are what make the world go round.”

  “I thought that was love.”

  “Whatever.” She flashed her pearly whites. “Besides, ya know you love me. You have to. Isn’t that one of the commandments? Love thy roommate?”

  “It’s love thy neighbor.”

  “My room’s right next to yours. You can’t get any more neighborly than that.”

  I jerked my head to the now-pristine bathroom. “And this is right next to my room, and it really bothers me when you don’t keep it clean. Or at least moderately clean.” I offered a small smile. “That love-thy-neighbor thing works both ways, you know.”

  “Okay,” she said slowly, “but can we work out some kind of cleaning compromise?” She fidgeted and scuffed her foot. “Honestly? I wouldn’t even know where to begin. Maybe that’s because my mom never showed me how to do this kind of thing.”

  Way to tug at the heartstrings.